


I Promise I'll Be Good

by inber



Series: Inber's Geralt x Jaskier x Reader Fanfiction [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternative Lifestyles, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Corporal Punishment, Dom/sub, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Miscommunication, Multi, Not Canon Compliant, Polyamory, Punishment, Submission, Tattoos, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:07:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23592799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inber/pseuds/inber
Summary: You’ve been with your boys for a whole year, and you plan a surprise for them. Alas, nothing goes to plan, and you must endure the consequences.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Reader, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader, Jaskier | Dandelion/Reader
Series: Inber's Geralt x Jaskier x Reader Fanfiction [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1698223
Kudos: 115





	I Promise I'll Be Good

**Author's Note:**

> There are themes of bad BDSM/lifestyle d/s in this chapter! You should never session IRL in the heat of emotion! Remember that this is just fantasy! Be safe, loves.

It isn’t going to go down in history as one of your _safest_ ideas.

It also isn’t going to go down as one of your smartest, you imagine, as your mind rolls over the possibilities of what might go wrong. But taking risks is how you ended up travelling with Geralt and Jaskier in the first place. And this is something that you want to do.

——————————-

The anniversary of your meeting was coming up; it had almost been an entire year since the duo had found you in your miserable tavern job, underpaid, half-starved and frightened for your future, and whilst tending to Geralt’s clothing and mending Jaskier’s shoes, something had clicked between the three of you.

They’d ended up staying an entire week in that run-down place, as you all cautiously explored the undeniable spark that kindled into a white-hot flame when you were together, either tangled bodily on the bed, or simply snuggled by the fire with mugs of mulled wine. After that, you’d given the red-faced tavern-keep the pleasure of seeing you walk away with your hand laced in Jaskier’s, the few things you owned slung over your shoulder in a bag, Geralt riding beside you both atop Roach.

You hadn’t spared one glance behind you for the place you’d once called home. No love was lost.

These memories, tangled with others from your year-long travels, often danced in front your eyes in the moments before you slept at night; the things you had seen, the fast-paced cities, the sleepy villages; the times that you had stayed up all night waiting for your two lovers to return from hunting some unspeakable monster and the relief you’d felt upon seeing them; the countless times you’d seen to Geralt or Jaskier’s wounds with a gentle hand, pushing your own needs to the back of the priority queue until you were sure they were okay.

And the sex. Oh, _Gods,_ the sex.

Geralt’s appetites were more insatiable than Jaskier’s, what with his mutant capabilities, but the bard held his own rather well, and you honestly couldn’t get enough of either of them too. Most nights saw you finding relief in some way or another; sometimes it was quick and needy, Geralt thrusting inside you from behind whilst you took Jaskier’s cock in your throat; sometimes it was slow and languid, you sat astride Geralt’s face whilst he feasted on your cunt and Jaskier rode him behind you, nuzzling the nape of your neck; sometimes all you needed was to slot between the two men, your arms around Jaskier, Geralt’s around you, and delight in the safety and love that radiated from your trinity.

Some nights were different, though. Many nights were play nights. The nights that they taught you things about yourself, about the limits of your body and their own, about how it felt to truly submit and give yourself over to their power. About trust, and pleasure, and punishment; about a lifestyle you’d chosen to adopt full-time as their submissive.

_Fondly, you touch your collar, a thin strip of leather that buckles at the back beneath the curtain of your hair so as not to draw suspicion. The word ‘Kitten’ is engraved on the inside by Geralt’s hand._

That day, when they’d gifted it to you for your birthday – that was the first day the word _love_ had been uttered. You were beside yourself with the thoughtfulness of the gift, and, clutching it to your chest, you’d bounced on the balls of your feet and said it without thinking; natural as breathing, as easy as the sun rises and sets. It made _sense._ “I love you!” You’d said, looking at both men, and you’d watched something touch both of their faces; the fear of rejection bit at the pit of your stomach, but it was chased back quickly when Jaskier smiled.

“I love you too, Kitten.” He’d told you, drawing you to him in a hug.

“ _We_ love you.” Geralt had murmured, wrapping his own massive arms ‘round the two of you and dipping his nose into your hair to draw in the scent of you, cinnamon-spice and pine from your outdoor lifestyle. You’d cried silent tears in that embrace, clutching the collar to your chest. Never had you thought you’d find your place in the world; your life was to be in that dismal tavern until the day you died. But now you had a home, and it wasn’t in a place; it was in two people.

——————————-   
  


“Where did you go just now, Kitten?” Jaskier’s voice interrupts your thoughts, as you blink memories away and focus on his handsome face, a cheeky half-smile tugging at his lips. You can’t help but return it, although your cheeks flush a little at being caught-out daydreaming.

“I was thinking of last night.” You half-lie; whilst you were going over your plans in your head, the evening before _had_ been entirely memorable.

Jaskier laughs, a musical sound; there was nothing about the bard that wasn’t lyrical and upbeat, and you adore him for it. “Oh, Gods. I had no idea Geralt could even _make_ that sound.”

Atop Roach, Geralt snorts, before shooting both of you a side-long glance. “Shut it, Jas’.” He threatens, before the ghost of a smile flits across his lips. “…Neither did I, if I am honest.”

You giggle, pausing to pick a few fresh stems of wild rosemary from a roadside shrub, before running to catch up with the two, stuffing the herbs into your pack.

“Making more oils, Kitten?” Geralt asks; he hadn’t turned to watch you pick the plant, but very little escaped him. He was protective of you – of both of you – to a near-obsessive degree, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like it. “You know that we have more than enough coin, between my hunts and Jaskier’s performances.”

“I like to contribute.” You shrug, “And it makes me feel useful.” Jaskier reaches over to squeeze your hand, before noting it is dirtied from the shrub, and wiping said dirt across the back of your skirts with a soft _‘ew’._ You bump your hip against his and laugh. “Anyway, I keep some of the coin I make, as you know.”

“Ah, yes. Due for a beautiful new gown, correct?” Jaskier asks, picking at the threads of your bodice; it certainly had seen better days. “Maybe something silver… silver and red. Hmm.” He squints, apparently envisioning you in something better fit for a courtier.

“No,” You correct him, sticking your tongue out childishly, “Travel clothes. A proper leather bodice, boots… that sort of thing. Only, I am torn between skirts and a pair of trousers.”

“Trousers would be more practical.” Geralt states, gently tugging at Roach’s reins as she attempts to pause and snack on a burst of fresh grass, “More flexibility, more movement. You’ll get more use out of them.”

“But no _easy access._ ” You whisper lowly, slyly regarding the Witcher beneath your lashes; he whips his head to catch your gaze, and a rumble of possessive laughter bubbles in his chest as his glinting eyes flash.

“Skirts,” Jaskier announces, “ _Definitely_ skirts.“

——————————-

You hit the outside of the city nearing midday, and as you’ve been instructed to do before, you keep close to Roach’s side, with Jaskier walking beside you. It’s a seaside port, overrun with sailors and whores and merchants and, as your beloved bard had put it, _‘ne'er-do-wells’._ You feel no fear making your way to the biggest inn, however; the bonus of travelling with a Witcher was the wide berth people often made for him, allowing you easy access to more than your fair share of the road.

The whispering begins immediately, words like _White Wolf_ and _butcher_ and _monster_ the soundtrack to your arrival. Geralt, as always, ignores them, although you know he hears everything, and you also know that there are times that the weight of the words crush him, when he is away from prying eyes. Jaskier and you are there for him during those times; he rarely speaks, but he doesn’t need to. He draws his comfort from the two of you. _If only these people knew who he truly was,_ you think. But people fear that which they are not familiar with. It doesn’t matter how large or small the town; that fact never changes.

You arrive at the centre of the city, locating the inn; to your delight, it’s a rather well-kept establishment, plushly decorated inside, and Geralt leaves to stable Roach as you and Jaskier locate the inn-keep to secure lodgings. It’s become something of an inside joke between the three of you, always requesting the largest suite and laying down the coin for it; the first assumption made is usually that Jaskier is your betrothed, and you are newly-wed. This always causes confusion when Geralt is thrown into the mix.

“ _He’s my bodyguard.” Jaskier had once said, deadpan, “My wife is ever-so slap-happy when she’s had too much to drink, and I need protecting from her.”_

So it came to be that you paid for the honeymoon suite wherever one was available, or for two beds to be dragged together when it was not. It was such a strange answer that most keepers did not prod further, but it never failed to make you laugh once you were in the room, away from curious stares.

It was fortunate that the inn was relatively empty, as there were not many ships docked, and it was doubly lucky that they did boast a luxury suite for important guests or newly-weds; Jaskier lays out the coin with a flourish, kisses you on your forehead, and declares, “Only the best for my turtledove!”

You have to pinch your thigh to stop yourself from snorting, batting your long lashes instead; it was easy to look smitten at Jaskier, because you _were_. The keeper gave a little speech about blessings and babies and how they had a fine wine that would be waiting for you, and you let it wash over you as so many similar speeches had done before, concentrating on a spot between the keeper’s forehead so it appeared as though you were listening, when the gears of your mind were turning on other matters instead.

“Are we good here?” Geralt’s baritone announces him, if his heavy footfalls did not, and you turn to smile at him, holding up the keys and nodding. He grunts, and makes his way to the stairs, and you follow as you hear the inn-keep spluttering in question behind you.

“Well, you see, my wife – Gods _bless_ her heart – has a bit of a problem with drink…” You hear Jaskier explaining in your wake, and you stifle your amusement into your hand, trotting behind Geralt to locate the secluded suite.

The Witcher unlocks the double doors and swings them open, _hmmm_ ‘ing in approval, and you find yourself doing the same. The bed is massive, the floor before the fireplace laden with lush furs for lounging, and there are various vintages of wine arranged carefully atop a polished wooden table. The bed has tall posters that are ornately carved, and you trace the face of a cherub, briefly amused at the sights the Godly creature will be privy to, before curious feet take you to an adjoining room.

“Oh, _Geralt,_ ” You squeal, clapping your hands together, “Come look!”

He’s unlacing his armour and setting his swords and vials down, a ritual you know he performs with care so that he knows exactly where everything is at any moment; you also know he hides additional weaponry around the room, just in case. After a few moments, you hear his now bare feet on the floorboards as he approaches behind you, scooping you back into his chest in a hug as you grin, pointing at the stone bathtub that is built into the floor. It’s huge, luxurious, and the stage for so many debauched things that are scampering through your mind. “Isn’t it lovely?” You ask, casting a trained eye across the oils they have in vials at the sides, aware that both Geralt and Jaskier prefer your blends – you have made one specifically for each man.

“You know how much I love a good soak.” He agrees in a purr at your ear, and you shiver. “It’s a wonderful way to wind down after getting _worked up_.” You bite your lower lip and nuzzle into the side of his face, feeling the scratch of his stubble on your cheek.

“It’s settled!” Jaskier’s voice enters the room, as he closes the door behind him, “The innkeeper thinks you’re a lunatic, Kitten, and Geralt, you are to save me from her because I – and I quote – _need to grow a pair of balls to deal with a woman_.”

You start to laugh, reaching down to kiss Geralt’s hands as you wander back into the bedroom, the Witcher not far behind you. “You make the story worse and worse every time, Jaskier, I swear to the Gods. One day they will insist you take the suite, and I sleep locked in the cellar.”

The bard lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “Well, you _do_ sometimes snore when– ow!” Playfully, you swat at his arm, and he calls over at his lover, “Geralt! I need protecting!” He doubles over when you prod him in the side, knowing exactly where he’s ticklish, and the both of you are giggling like fools.

“You need your head checked, is what you need.” Geralt declares, ignoring your playful tussle in favour of trying out the bed, upon which he lays with a groan that earns both Jaskier and your attention, because it’s so sinfully beautiful a sound. “Oh, that extra coin was _worth it._ ”

“And to be made back!” Jaskier announces proudly, sitting on the edge of the bed. “The innkeep wishes for me to play tonight – the greatest tales of the White Wolf, my _protector_. He’s already spreading word, and he’s promised the suite as compensation – minus what we eat and drink.”

You clap your hands together and sit on the bard’s lap, kissing him sweetly. “How is it that you make me out to be an absolute loon at the _same time_ as securing yourself work? The Gods gifted you with a tongue of pure silver.”

“Of pure nonsense.” Geralt grumps, but his voice is somewhat softened as he relaxes into the feathers of the over-stuffed mattress.

“You _like_ my tongue.” Jaskier shoots back, and the Witcher has to chuckle darkly by way of agreeing. “In any case, I need my lute re-strung before tonight. There is a man who can sell me strings and assist me across the town’s square, and the tailor is nearby.” He presses a kiss into your temple. “What say you we leave grouchy here to take a well-deserved nap and go run our errands, hmm?”

You feel your stomach flip in a mixture of excitement and anticipation. This is where your plan _has_ to go flawlessly; if either of them become suspicious, it’ll be ruined. “Measuring me will take some time, as will choosing fabrics and buttons. And I _know_ you won’t leave your lute unattended. We can’t do both at once, together.” Nonchalantly, you shrug. “How about you escort me to the tailor, see to your lute, and come back in a few hours to return me here?”

Jaskier thinks this over, glancing at Geralt, who is also somewhere in thought – although he’s worn-down from travel and the responsibility of being the hunter, the watcher, the protector. He keeps blinking slowly, dreamily. “Hmmm.” Is his input, and it’s fairly non-committal. He’s almost asleep.

“We won’t be in another city like this for _weeks_ , and if my skirt falls apart and I am forced to walk beside you in my _knickers_ –” You protest, before Jaskier lifts up his hands in surrender.

“Alright, alright, Kitten. By the Gods, you think we’d have taught you not to be so _mouthy_ by now.” He squeezes your waist, and you grin, knowing you’ve gotten your way.

“You _like_ my mouth.”

——————————-

It’s betrayal, pure and simple, and the collar at your throat suddenly feels tight when Jaskier stops in at the tailor, instructing the woman there to give you special care, and to tend to any need you might have. He wants to give you coin, but you proudly refuse, holding up the purse of your savings. Lovingly, he kisses you, and is surprised by the quick heat when you flick at his tongue, deepening it for a mere moment, before you part. “What was that for?” He asks, low and husky.

“Luck.” You tell him, eyes flitting down to his beloved instrument, “I… I know that not every shop carries your favoured strings. I hope that this place does.”

He grins, and brushes the line of your jaw with his thumb. “I have a good feeling about today, Kitten.” He assures you, before he straightens, nods at the seamstress, and makes his way out of the shop. You watch him go, watch him walk across the square, and turn back to the woman.

“I need new skirts. Much like these I wear; same fabric, nothing fancy. Durable.” Hastily, you grab her pencil, and write down your measurements. She looks confused. “I have other duties to attend to of great import.”

“Madame, the good bard told me…” She’s hesitant, but you pull coin from your purse; it’s double the amount needed for a simple skirt. It’s for her silence, and both of you know it.

“I need your help in this matter. If Jaskier returns to check on me, you _must_ say I am using the latrine. I will be back before he returns to collect me.” Solemnly, you meet her eyes, and beg her to accept your deal. She hesitates again, and so you press down another coin, and the silver glint wins her over.

“…Crimson would be a nice colour for your skirts.” She sighs, and takes the money from the table. “I have your word that you’ll return before dusk?”

“You have my word.”

——————————-

It feels strange to be walking the town without an escort. You keep glancing over your shoulder, half expecting Geralt to manifest from the shadows. For the most part, you are entirely unnoticed, just another common woman in the crowd; this thrills you, this freedom, and with confidence you walk towards your destination, using crudely-drawn directions on the back of a pamphlet given to you by a merchant. Your path takes you out of the heart of town and further towards the docks, near the whore-houses and the places of ill repute. The crowd begins to change, as does the signage, and you quicken your pace.

Here, men take more notice of you; you’re not dressed like a woman that sells sex, nor do you have a wedding band on your finger – something, you realise, you should rectify if Jaskier is going to continue to sell his newlyweds story – and you keep your head low, ignoring the comments and whistles of men that pass you by. Your heart is racing in your chest, and you can’t stop imagining what Jaskier would say – and what Geralt would _do_ to these men. Shivering that thought off, you look up to get your bearings, and a wooden sign that creaks in the breeze catches your attention. With a sigh of relief, you shoulder the small door open, and enter the parlour.

A bell chimes, and an older woman comes out from a back room. She must be nearing fifty, but her hair is ebony and styled in a twisting bun, and her smile is kind. “You look lost, little dove,” She greets you, “Take a wrong turn? Do you need directions back to the square?”

“Actually, ma'am, I need your expertise.” You answer nervously, and approach the counter. This piques her interest, and she raises her eyebrows. From your waistband, you produce a piece of parchment, over-folded and worn at the edges. You lay it flat, smoothing it carefully. “Are you able to do this?”

Her smile widens, and she fixes her eyes with yours; they are heterochromic, hazel, and accented with a tattoo beneath each. Much of her skin is inked; swirls and curls and names and faces and places. She’s a walking work of art. You’d heard her name once in another fishing town, watched two sailors compare tattoos, and that is when the seed of this idea had been planted in your mind. Something permanent – an anniversary gift, and a declaration of _forever._ Geralt and Jaskier deserved nothing less.

“Of course I can, little dove.” She agrees, “But you know it will hurt, and it will last forever, right?” Her clever eyes are already scanning your hand-drawn design, deciding upon which needles to use and which of her inks would suit.

“I am counting on the second part.” You return her smile, and reach into that velvet pouch. “Is this coin enough?”

“For love? More than, little dove.”

——————————-

It _does_ hurt, by Gods, but you have been trained to endure pain, and you’re mostly silent as she works, speaking only when she asks questions of you. You learn of her life – of the different people she’s seen and worked on, of the places she’s visited, and how lucky she feels to have finally settled, to have made a name for herself as an artist. The process is done one needle-prick at a time, the ink poked into your skin, and she’s precise and thoughtful, working by the bright light of a lantern. She’s wonderful company, and you feel taken care of.

“There,” She says at last, “I think I did your vision justice, dove.” She wipes off the last of the ink with a clear liquid that stings, and she brings a mirror for you to see her handiwork. You gasp aloud; your skin is reddened by the needling, but the tattoo is beautiful, and far more intricate and thought-out than your clumsy drawing.

  
“Oh, it’s… it’s _so perfect._ **Thank** you.” Tears prick your eyes, and she chuckles, rubbing a salve into your skin and running a thin bandage across the work.

“See that you let it breathe when you can. And don’t you _dare_ go scratching and picking at the scabs that will form! They’ll fall off themselves, and when it’s all healed, it’ll be just a touch less black. But it’ll be yours forever.” You nod eagerly, hopping off the bench where she does her work, as she washes her hands.

As she walks you to the door, you cast your gaze outside, and notice that it’s dark.

It’s _dark._

“Fuck,” You hiss, “Fuck, _shit,_ ” Wildly, you glance about, looking for a timepiece. “How long was I here? What time is it?” Nerves snap at your stomach, and you feel like you might be sick.

“Coming up to ten in the evening, little dove.” The tattooist looks concerned at your sudden turn of mood. “Somewhere to be?”  
  
“Yeah, um, you could say that.” Oh, Gods. _Oh Gods!_ You were in **so** much trouble. Hurriedly, you thank her again, as you hot-foot it out the door; she warns against back-alleys at this time of night, but her words fade as you retrace your path here at a full-tilt run, already trying to figure out how to do damage control. You can’t think of anything that might help your case. _Fuckity-fuck._

Your bad luck gets worse as you get yourself lost; by the lantern of night, the city looks completely different, and you find yourself racing through a residential area that you hadn’t been through on your way. Nothing is familiar, panic is high in your chest, and you are forced to double-back and try again. More time passes, too much time; any man that attempts to cat-call you is met with your bare teeth and a growl, and your boots never slow on the cobblestones as you run. Even if some drunk bastard wanted to have a go at you, he’d have to catch you first.

Finally, _finally_ you break through a small crowd of gossiping women and into the familiar town square; you cast your gaze up to the clock in the centre of the city, just as the minute hand lazily ticks past eleven. You’re over _seven hours_ late. You stop outside the inn to try to catch your breath, and contemplate not going upstairs; wildly, you think maybe it’d be better if you concoct some sort of story involving an abductor, or something, _anything_ to get you out of the hot water you’re sure to be steeped in. But you can’t condemn someone else to save yourself. Squeezing your eyes shut, uttering a prayer to whichever of the Gods might be listening, you step into the crowded inn.

There’s a bard playing, but it’s not Jaskier, and you note that the crowd seems disinterested and generally moody; their talk is loud, but in your state it’s overwhelming, and you can’t make anything out specifically. Ignoring the innkeep, you take the stairs two at a time, pacing as quickly as you can towards your suite without running. You push open the doors –

–and fall right into Jaskier’s arms, who catches you with a shout of surprise. It takes you both a second to realise what has happened, but then the bard is squeezing you to his chest, the breath pushed from your lungs, as he buries his face into the side of your neck. “Oh, thank the Gods, thank the _Gods,_ you’re safe!” He cries, stepping into the room with you and not relinquishing his death-grip. You can hear his voice is roughened from crying, and your heart drops further. _What have you done?_

“I’m safe, I’m fine, Jaskier,” You squeak out, and he relaxes his hold slightly to allow you to breathe, before he pulls back to look at you; you can see the tear-tracks on his cheeks, the redness of his eyes, and another slice of guilt attacks your heart. _Fuck!_

“Are you hurt?” He’s scanning your body frantically, fear knitting his eyebrows together, “Kitten, did someone do something to you? What _happened?_ Were you taken?” You’re shaking your head _no_ as he peppers you with questions, his hands all over you, as if he’s trying to assure himself that you’re real, you’re here with him.

“I am fine. Please, Jaskier, I am _so sorry_ – I’m fine. I – where’s Geralt?” You cup his face, forcing him to meet your contrite gaze, and he seems to relax into the idea that you’re okay.

“Out looking for you.” He replies, “All the seamstress would say is that you had left the shop on a matter of _'great import’._ ” You wince visibly; you hope she’s still alive, and if she is, that she’s unharmed. The tangle of your mess has become more knotted. “I think he may have headed to the housing district. After that he said that he’d come back for Roach and begin searching the outskirts.” Swallowing, you realise that for the first time ever, you don’t _want_ to see Geralt. Maybe some part of you was hoping that he’d gone on a hunt and was oblivious to this disaster, or something else had taken him away from the town, but you’re aware that wishful thinking does not grant wishes.

As if summoned, Geralt’s voice echoes down the corridor. “Jaskier! Some children saw her near the houses, running as if being _chased._ They said she–” He rounds the corner, and stops in his tracks when he lays eyes upon you in Jaskier’s embrace. Several emotions cross his face at once, and then he’s striding quickly toward you, scooping you up from the bard’s arms to crush you into his massive chest. If you thought Jaskier’s hug was strong, Geralt has him put to shame. Your breath squeaks out.

“Fuck.” He grunts, squeezing his eyes closed, burying his nose in your hair. “Oh, _Fuck._ You’re here. _**Fuck.**_ ” His breath stutters, and you weakly squeeze his waist; he realises he’s crushing you, and you gulp in a desperate breath as his biceps relax, although he does not let you go. He looks over your head at Jaskier, who is running his hands through his hair. “Where _was_ she?”

“She hasn’t said.” The bard responds, before collapsing into a chair; he’s obviously exhausted. You’re trembling, trying to think of what exactly to tell them, how to make this better. _Hey, I ran away to get a tattoo – surprise!_ Doesn’t seem like a good answer, and certainly not the best way to give them your gift. Not the way you’d imagined, the way you’d pictured.

Geralt tilts your head up, looking into your glistening eyes. His own are pained, weary, and sweat still dots his brow; he’s been frantic. “Kitten, tell us what happened. The seamstress said you left?”

“Is she alright? You didn’t… _hurt_ her on my account, did you?” Your voice is tiny. Something hardens in Geralt’s gaze. You know by the look that she is safe, and it was a stupid question to ask.

“Tell us _what happened._ ” He commands, releasing his hold on you to get a good look at you as Jaskier did. Besides your teary eyes, you look much the same as when you’d left the rooms.

“I… didn’t like… her sewing.” You say, lamely, casting your gaze at your feet. “I left… to find a different seamstress. I didn’t want Jaskier to tell me _no_ , or to worry, so I asked her to… cover for me.” You wince at the lies that tumble from your tongue. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see the bard bristling. “I went to a different part of town… I got lost on my way back.”

Silence in the room. You can faintly hear the dim roar of the drunken crowd downstairs. Geralt’s fingers tighten on your shoulders.

“You… _didn’t like her sewing._ ” Jaskier parrots, and there’s venom in his voice. You do not dare to look up. The Witcher is still silent as the grave above you, but you can feel the heat of his stare blazing down upon you.

After what feels like forever, Geralt speaks. “Jaskier had to _give up_ his show tonight. I had to turn down an easy bounty on a wraith haunting nearby. We _paid_ townsmen to look for you… all because you wanted _nicer clothes?_ ” His voice is very low, but it doesn’t need to be loud to terrify you. Your knees shake, and slowly, you nod your head.

“I’m _so sorry_ , I– I couldn’t see the clock–”

“But you could see the **sky** outside!” Geralt roars, finally releasing your shoulders, taking two steps away from you to lean against the cool stone wall. It’s obvious he’s trying to calm himself before he does something regrettable. “You scared the _hell_ out of Jaskier. You scared the hell out of _me._ But you were just thinking about _yourself._ ”

“No–”

“I told you about this town!” Jaskier explodes, his voice cracking like it always does when he’s angry; it’s never been directed at you before, though. “We thought you’d been taken, or _worse._ It’s hardly safe to travel here alone when the sun is out, let alone when it’s set – and you, unarmed, not even knowing the streets. How could you be so _stupid?_ ”

Tears drip hotly down your cheeks, and you grip your arms close to your body, silent under the weight of their fury. No, it’s much worse than that – they are _disappointed_ in you. They think you selfish and vain, uncaring of their feelings.

“Hitch your skirts up and bend over the bed.” Geralt commands, the gravel of his voice low again. “We have not taught you well enough, brat. But you’ll remember after tonight.”

Sniffling, you do as you are bid, pulling your dress up around your waist, bending over to present the curve of your rear, your cotton knickers the only barrier of modesty. Behind you, you hear the two men moving, speaking in low tones, but you can’t make out what they are saying. Your fingers curl into the bed-covers.

“What is your safe word?” Geralt asks, monotone.

“Sun.” You whisper; there’s some tug of relief, in that he still cares for your well-being. This is a lesson. Self-pityingly, however, you feel as though you don’t deserve his mercy.

“What is her safe word, Jaskier?” Geralt asks his lover, and you hear the bard echo the same word. “And your gesture, brat?” You reach your left arm long on the bed and slap down on the linen twice. He grunts, satisfied with that, and you draw your hand back down, close to your chest. You feel fingers at the waistband of your knickers, and they are drawn down to expose the peach of your behind, smooth skin unblemished, save for one or two freckles. For a long time, you are left like that, exposed; you can hear the rustle of bags, the clink of objects, the low murmurs again as the two men converse. You don’t move an inch.

There’s the sound of Geralt unbuckling his belt, the clicking almost obnoxiously loud as he pulls the fetter loose, the soft chime of metal. You try to breathe deeply, to focus as you’ve been taught; the deeper you breathe, the more you can endure.

“I am going to strike you now, brat,” Geralt tells you, in a voice you’ve not heard before; there’s no lust in his tone, and there’s a streak of anger that _you_ put there. You’ve brought this on _yourself._ “I will do so ten times. You will count each one out loud. Understood?”

“Yes.”

You expect a pause, but the snap of his belt is immediate and biting; buckle-side wielded, the pain is intense and sudden, and you can’t help but cry out, before drawing in another breath. “One!” Already tears have beaded on your eyelashes, and your fingers are knotted in the sheets.

He hits you again, precise with his movements; this time you feel the stinging ache on your other cheek, no doubt symmetrical to the first. You know beyond a shadow of a doubt that welts have already begun to rise. This time, you manage not to make a sound, except, “Two!”

Jaskier watches in silence through strikes three, four, five; at that point, you are shaking, but you’ve kept count, and although your knuckles are white on the bedspread, you’d rather die than say your safe word. You hear the sound of another belt coming undone, and realise Jaskier is giving Geralt his to hit you with instead; it’s a thinner leather, but the buckle is heavy and ornate. You squeeze your eyes shut as it impacts the lower left quarter of your ass, choking on a shout at the different kind of pain; it’s more focused, more brutal. “S-s _ix_.” Your lower lip quivers.

Seven, eight, nine; you count them out, and can’t help but shriek at each one, wishing you could be better, wishing you could take this punishment like a good girl, silent; when ten hits, you sound it out with a broken voice. “T-en.”

Geralt grunts, and you hear the belt fall to the ground. Your rear is aflame, aching, and you can only imagine the sight you must look bent over the bed. But you don’t need to picture it for long, as there’s the sound of something dragging across the floor.

“ **Look.** ” The Witcher commands, and you lift your head, blinking blearily over your shoulder. He has a mirror, and reflected is his handiwork; the welts are turning a deep purple, a network of bruises blooming like wildflowers, broken vessels beneath skin – things that will mark for well over a week, but will not scar. He hasn’t drawn a drop of blood. You stare at the evidence of his anger, of your crimes against the two men you love, and you _still_ feel as if you’ve gotten off easy.

“You will ride Roach for the next three days.” Geralt tells you, as he moves the mirror back to where it belongs. This makes you jerk your head up again, wide-eyed; you enjoy walking with Jaskier on the ground, and Geralt lets you ride with him when you’re very tired, but that’s _not_ why you’ll be riding now. Every step that horse takes, every bump in the road – you’ll feel it against your beaten ass, feel the ache of your own betrayal. As if reading your mind, Geralt continues, “Now you can feel on the outside just a fraction, just a _tiny_ sliver of how Jaskier and I felt inside when we found you missing.”

That nudges down the last of your defences, and you begin to cry soundlessly into the sheets, wetting them with your tears. Jaskier walks over to you, touches your bottom, making you flinch, and crouches beside the bed to stroke your hair from your face.

“We need you to remember that we ask you to stay with us because the world is _not safe_.” He whispers, trying to get you to understand with his soulful eyes. “We’ve punished you for what you did because it was thoughtless and stupid. If you’d just come to the shop and told me what you wanted, we could have avoided all of this. We need you to talk to us, always. We could not bear to lose you.”

You nod, mute, and his smile is very sad. He runs his hand down your back – and pauses.

“What’s this?” He asks, his voice tight. Geralt immediately strides over, and begins to tug your shirt free from your skirts, intending to lift it.

“ **No!** ” You scream, pushing yourself away from the bed. The pain in your rear flares with the movement, and you bite off a hiss, tripping over your own feet and falling to the floor; the contact against your bare skin is another world of pain, and you howl. “Sss-sun, _sun,_ don’t— don’t **touch me!** ”

Jaskier is wild of eye, his hands held up in surrender, but Geralt looks like a fierce animal; you’ve never seen his eyes so dark before, his fists clenched so tightly. “That’s a _bandage._ Why do you have a bandage wrapped around you?” The words are ground out from between gritted teeth. He’s at the very edge of his tether.

You don’t want to lie anymore. “Geralt,” You sob, as he approaches and kneels; you try to push his hands away, but he’s strong.

“I have to see to you if you’re _hurt,_ Kitten. It’s my responsibility. Please.” He still looks enraged, but he’s made an effort to soften his tone; you are suddenly aware that he’s angry because he thinks you’re injured. He’s probably making plans to go eviscerate whoever is responsible with his bare hands. And so you relent, letting him pull your shirt over your head as you whimper. Carefully, he unrolls the bandage that wraps your chest.

The linen falls away to reveal your tattoo; over your left breast, where your pulse shivers the strongest, the black ink is stark against your skin. Permanently a part of you, a key is etched into your flesh, ornate and beautiful; the head of it bears two initials, entwined, distinctive: _**G J**_. At the very tip of the design, a paw-print is incorporated, part of the key’s head, a nod to your nickname. The meaning is obvious – the key, the placement, the letters. It’s a commitment forever, a promise that your heart is _theirs,_ that you belong exclusively to them for as long as it beats.

There’s silence for a long moment, until both men blurt out words at the same time.

“You got a _tattoo?_ ” Jaskier’s voice is incredulous,

“You _marked_ yourself for us?” Geralt’s tone is soft and reverent.

To answer both of them, you nod, before moving to cover yourself with your arms, feeling exposed. Geralt stops you, unable to tear his gaze from the mark, tracing it obsessively with his predator’s eyes, memorising every line of it. Jaskier walks over to get a closer look, crouching too, his movements precise and slow.

“It’ll be a year, in two days. Since… we met, I mean. I’ve been planning and saving this for months, ever since I began wearing our collar.” You explain, trying to calm down so you’ll at least be eloquent. “I knew we were coming here, and there’s a woman who does beautiful work–”

“–Faelynn.” Geralt murmurs; of course he knows her.

“–Y-yes. I wanted it to be _perfect._ I just needed time to make it a surprise, but I fucked up.” Sniffling, you rub at your eyes with the back of your hand. “It took hours to do, and I couldn’t see the window. I lost track of time. And I didn’t… I didn’t want to show you in these circumstances, so I panicked and I lied.” The truth felt good to get off your chest, although it presented another layer of potential punishment.

“Kitten, you… this is _beautiful._ ” Jaskier softly traces the skin around the tattoo, and his gentle hand makes you shiver. “You’re right. It shouldn’t have been this way. This is a precious gift.” Softly, he picks up your hand to kiss your knuckles. “What an unfortunate day, hmm?”

Geralt’s pupils are dilated, and he finally meets your eyes. “You marked your skin on _purpose._ ” He says, again; it’s as if he doesn’t understand, and then it dawns on you. All the scars he carries are memories, old traumas, things he never asked for. But you’ve done this out of love, and it’s a kind of scar he’d never considered before. Slowly, you nod.

He closes his eyes and draws his head to your own, his forehead meeting yours, and his breath quivers. “I can’t believe you’d do that for me… for _us_.”

More tears march down your cheeks, and you nuzzle him. “I’d do _anything_ for us.”

He sits back, takes Jaskier’s hand, and squeezes it. “I thought we’d lost you, and then I thought you didn’t care, and _now._..” He shakes his head, overwhelmed. Jaskier leans into him, kissing his shoulder. “Now I want to take back those lashes.”

“No,” You tell him, “I disobeyed you both. I had good intentions, but I understand how I frightened you. My punishment was warranted.”

The Witcher nods slowly, trades a glance with Jaskier, and then looks back to you. “You don’t have to ride Roach,” He offers.

“I will take my punishment as it is given to me.” The hint of a smile touches your lips. “Because I trust your judgement.” You flick your gaze to the bard, “I trust both of you.”

The men sigh, one after the other, Geralt rubbing his face, and Jaskier shaking his head.

“Come on, Kitten.” The Witcher stands, and offers his hand. Jaskier mirrors him, and you grasp each one, wincing as they pull you to a stand. Geralt guides you to the bed to lay you face-down, carefully, as Jaskier fetches healing ointments and poppy milk. Gently, silently, they tend to you, rubbing a cream that numbs the pain into your welts, followed by two drops of milk on your tongue, washed down with iced water. Drowsiness washes over you like a warm wave at the beach, and you look up at the two men kneeling at the bedside, a dreamy smile touching your lips.

Geralt has his arm slung around Jaskier’s shoulder, and the bard is playing with a lock of your hair. “What are we going to do with you, Kitten?” He asks, his voice sweetly soft.

“Keep me, please.” Your voice is mostly swallowed by the pillow.

Geralt’s laughter soothes you; it’s one of your favourite sounds. “Oh, I suppose we _have_ to now, don’t we?” He leans down to kiss your cheek. “Sleep, dear heart. In the morning, this will all feel better.”

You make a noise of agreement, and your lashes flutter as you close your eyes and succumb to slumber, knowing that they will watch over you and join you in the bed when they are ready to sleep, too.

“I _told_ you she was going to be a handful when we met her.” Jaskier sighs, but his voice is lighter. He stands up to fetch some wine, as Geralt wanders behind him, leaning down to rest his chin on the smaller man’s shoulder.

“You did.” He agrees. When Jaskier is done pouring, the Witcher steals the cup, delighting in the other man’s indignant noise.

“Luckily, between us, we have four hands.” Jaskier begins to pour a second cup.

Geralt drinks of the wine and casts his gaze fondly over your slumbering form. “Hmmm. Lucky indeed.”


End file.
